Rejected Again. This is Becoming a Bad Habit.


Well this is starting to be a running theme. The Pike’s Peak Flash Fiction Contest I entered back in January got back to me with very nice comments on the two pieces I entered but basically – I didn’t win or place or even show. That leaves, I think, only two other writing contests I am currently still waiting on. One should be decided soon but the other is part of the CanWrite workshops that take place in July at the University of Alberta. Since we are going to be here now that we’ve passed on the Texas, I am thinking I will try to attend. I have to check the dates again because Katy and I are going to be in Iowa for a while after her school gets out. My mom is overburdened with care-taking and I am going to help out for a bit. Not anxious to jump back into that mode. Every time I have visited since my late husband’s death little things have brought back the memories of taking care of Will at home for those first 15 months of his illness. Oddly the biggest reminder is the towel my Mom keeps wrapped around the base of the toilet to catch the “dribbles”. Between his unsteadiness and dimming eyesight, Will couldn’t hit water standing up and wouldn’t sit down. I was always mopping up pee when I wasn’t stepping in it. Dad is the same way and when I see the towel I remember to check for wet spots to avoid sopping up anything with my socks. Urine soaked socks. Now there is a memory.

I sent out another two pieces last night and today. One a reworking of the tooth-tooth blog for the Globe and another on how Rob and I met for Ladies Home Journal. I really hate entering contests when I can submit for free to publications, but it’s not easy finding opportunities for basically unpublished writers. Magazines are asking asking for clips (of previously published work) with queries and submissions. The big Catch-22. 

The flash pieces are going to be resubmitted to a web-based site called Quick Fiction which specializes in the mini-genre of fiction 500 words or less. Mine had to be 100 or less for the contest and so are on the ultra short end of Flash, but it is a fun and exacting exercise in creativity. 

So all in all that will be seven pieces out for consideration between contests and magazines (still waiting to here on my sci-fi and should probably send an e-mail soon.) Oh no, wait – I resubmitted The White Boots at FailBetter. Eight of my babies are out on the street corner trying to make mama a name. 

A Kinky Mountie Update


I recently wrote about Rob calling the “Mounties” down on our guitar hero whitetrash renter neighbor. In the course of telling the story I mentioned that my late father-in-law spent time in the RCMP aka Mounties pulling ceremonial duty in Ottawa in front of the Parliament building where he was often improperly propositioned by American girls with uniform fetishes. One of my most prolific commenters seized the opportunity to make a punny joke (good on her) after I mentioned that Mounties are not “mounted” anymore. Well, the Sunday Edmonton Journal just so happened to carry this article on Mounties using their uniforms to secure, uh, dates. 

Two officers were disciplined for appearing on dating sites wearing the red serge/traditional uniform. The first was seeking a LTR with a transexual or transgendered person, preferrably Thai. The second put ads on, among other places, Plenty of Fish and was simply looking for nookie during his shift with anyone up for it. The RCMP maintains that it is wrong for officers to appear on dating sights for whatever purpose wearing the serge. The first man is still on the job while the second was forced to resign.

So there you have it. Mounties do it in their red serge. Rob’s dad was not exaggerating its power.

Tiny Rant about Elderly Parents


Just a tiny one or my husband will be commenting about how I need to blog less and work on my “serious” writing more (’cause daddy is waiting to be a kept man), but can we talk about our parents? My father is nearly 81 years old, has cataracts, and a left foot that is basically inoperable due to a serious of strokes and complications from circulatory issues and he is still driving. Yes, still driving. When last I was home my mother wanted me to talk with him about handing over the keys. I told her that all she needed to do was hide them and have my brother-in-law disable Dad’s car if she didn’t want to put her foot down with him. She didn’t do that and he has been in a fender bender of late. No major damage and no one was injured, but I think that is beside the point. I was a bit heartless when I told Mom today that it’s her responsibility as Dad’s caregiver to make the tough calls sometimes and this is one of them. I then took the highest of high ground when I pointed out that I had taken my late husband’s keys away from him before he was even diagnosed with his illness despite his protests and the mutterings and pouting that went along with his disintegrating mind. My last husband was still ambulatory and much stronger than I was whereas my Dad can barely walk from the kitchen table to the sink and spends most of his day in bed or sitting in a recliner in the living room.

But what makes me even more angry is that Dad is in his right mind. He knows perfectly well that he isn’t fit to drive because of his difficulty of movement and blind spots. He knows! And he is just being pig-headed. And yes, I do know that this is an independence issue and hard on his pride and sense of himself as a man. The last part being key because the medication he has had to take over the last nearly three years have changed him physically and causes him embarrassment. Though he tries to have a sense of humor about it like the time my sister was helping me button a dress shirt and it fit a bit snugly, he remarked, “Look at these great breasts and your mother doesn’t appreciate them at all.” The make ego and sense of self is as strong at 80 as it is at 3. A man is a man and he feels less of one, but does that mean we wait until he backs over one of the neighbor kids or his own grandchild before we do what is necessary? (Evil me threw that at my mom too. I take the whole care-taking gig seriously. Though I will grant you that part of me is a bit pissed that I had no choice about the uni-lateral decisions I had to make once upon a time that my mother and my younger sister seem to think are optional.)

Tonight I get to have this lovely conversation all over again with my sister, who is still torqued at me for abdicating my number one son position to run off with Mr. Simpson and live in exile. She is tired and over-burdened and I get that, but she is still in charge. What did she think? That being the oldest was just a perk-filled pleasure romp?

Sometimes being the adult child sucks, but that’s the “adult” part of it.